Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance (Russian Mob Chronicles Book 1)
Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance: Chapter 12

My tears are brief, long enough to grieve the pain my poor judgment caused my brother, but not long enough to forget why I’m in Las Vegas to begin with. Private DNA testing, traveling to interview witnesses, and gifts used in bribery makes the defense of innocent a very costly endeavor. Although the Petretti crew nearly defunct after its founder, Col, was killed during an FBI sting four years ago, their influence in our hometown is stronger than any monetary value I could offer.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll give up. I’ll continue working on my brother’s case until he’s released and his conviction overturned. I’ll fight for his freedom with every breath I take. I will not give up.

I place a scrubbed frying pan into the drying rack when the creak of a door sounds through my ears. I roll my shoulders and level my breathing, preparing for the next hairpin curve on the vicious rollercoaster Nikolai and I have been riding the past twenty-four hours. God—has it truly only been twenty-four hours? The emotions pumping into me make it seem like forever.

Suspicion arises within me when my body fails to respond as it usually does in Nikolai’s presence. There’s no crackling of electricity in the air, and the hairs on my nape remain stagnant. Although my intuition still alerts me to be cautious, I sense more danger than before.

Cranking my neck to the side, my full gaze meets with a pair of black, almost lifeless eyes. An unnamed man is standing at the foot of the table Nikolai and I shared a meal at nearly thirty minutes ago. Just like nearly every other man I’ve had the displeasure of meeting this weekend, this stranger’s aura impels negative thoughts. His fists are clenched at his side; his mouth is set in a straight line, and his gaze is as hard as stone.

“Is there any left?” He jerks his chin to a plate of food sitting on my island counter.

I nod. “Help yourself.” I keep my voice friendly, even though I am feeling anything but.

The stranger’s slitted gaze locks with mine. “I’d prefer you serve me,” he insists, glaring at me as if I am worthless.

I feel my anger boiling from my stomach to my throat, but not trusting his lifeless eyes, I secure the plate of leftover food before gesturing for him to take a seat. With a conceited snarl, he sits in the chair on the far right-hand side of my dining nook. From his vantage, his view of the kitchen is uninterrupted.

The rattling plate in my hands exposes the shudder raking through my body when I set the food down in front of him. ‘Beer,’ he commands, his snarled tone failing to excuse his bad manners.

Not trusting the stranger’s motives, I save the roll of my eyes until I’m facing the fridge. After acquiring his requested beverage, I pop it open and place it on the coaster next to his plate. He grunts, rudely dismissing me so he can eat in peace. With a grumble, I set back to work on the dishes I was in the process of washing.

‘When we first arrived, we were advised this domain was out of bounds,’ the stranger advises a short time later through a mouth full of steak. ‘I guess Nikolai’s interests in you have waned since there’s no longer a man guarding the door.”

His comment bestows upon me a severe bout of indigestion, but I keep my worry unknown, ensuring he won’t smell my fear. While shoveling food into his mouth, the strange man keeps his eyes locked on me. It isn’t that I can see his eyes; it’s just because his gaze is so tumultuous, my nape is dripping with sweat.

A short time later, in the corner of my eye, I watch him throw a chunk of steak onto his plate. ‘If you taste as bland as this meat, I understand Nikolai’s disinterest.’

“I am an attorney, not a cook,” I mumble, the unease clutching my throat not enough to stop me retaliating to his rudeness.

My throat works hard to swallow when he stands from his chair and steps away from the table. “An attorney, hey? You’ve got looks and brains. An odd combination for Niki’s whores.”

His haughty tone makes my fear climb, but my fighting instincts have me saying, “I am part of Nikolai’s defense team; not his whore. Anything happening out there has nothing to do with me.”

A deep rumble fills the kitchen. It takes me a second to realize it’s the stranger’s laughter. It isn’t a happy laugh; it’s as villainous as the high and mighty gleam darkening his eyes.

“You’ve got attitude. I like that. The fighters keep things interesting.”

Flashes of my past tear through my brain, holding me captive. As fear envelops every inch of my body, I lock my eyes with the swinging door, praying someone will magically walk through it. My anxiety is so high, I’d rather endure another verbal slinging match with Nikolai than be eyed as I was four years ago.

My stomach recoils when the stranger growls, ‘The louder you scream, the harder I’m gonna fuck you.’ When he glares into my eyes, his every intention is revealed in sickening detail, all of them as disturbing as his abhorrent face.

When my fight-or-flight mode kicks into gear, my eyes dart to the door so I can calculate my most viable exit. My stomach swishes when I realize my steps to the door are double the stranger’s. No matter how fast I run, I’ll never beat him to the door.

As my back splays against my kitchen cabinets, my hand frantically searches for an object I can defend myself with. I’m not going down without a fight this time.

I curse the sheriff’s department under my breath, loathing that their removal of dangerous weapons was so thorough, I can’t replace a weapon. Recognizing I’m not leaving this room unscathed no matter what I do or say, I push off my feet and charge for the door.

A squeal bubbles up my chest when the man’s thick arm curls around my waist. I kick and thrust while screaming for help at the top of my lungs, praying my loud pleas will be heard over the thumping of bass in my living room.

The man tightens his grip around my waist so much he winds me. “I haven’t even started yet, and you’re already screaming.”

He flings me across the room as if I am weightless, sending me crashing into the drying rack with a thud. Shards of porcelain spray across the floor when the plates Nikolai and I used shatter on the tiled floor.

“Come on. Fight me, bitch. It just makes me harder,” he sneers, his hot breath hitting my ear when he curls his body over mine.

With one hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my screams for help, his other hand yanks down my shorts. With my mind hazing between the past and the present, I frantically claw at him. My sharp nails break through the leathery skin on his hands, but nothing I do impedes him. He tugs on my shorts so hard, the steel fastener soon bursts open under the pressure.

Remembering the self-defense classes Maddox taught me in the weeks prior to his arrest, I throw back my back and stomp down hard on my attacker’s foot. The man howls in pain when the heel of my stiletto pierces the fake material of his polished dress shoes.

Using his imbalance to my advantage, I ram my elbow into his ribs before dropping it to his crotch. A feral grunt seeps from his mouth when my aim on his family jewels showcases its perfection.

He falls to his knees, the anger on his face pushed aside for pain. “You fucking bitch!” he roars, his loud voice forcing more flashbacks into my mind.

With sheer determination moving my legs, I race for the swinging door. Although my house is crammed with mafia kingpins and women barren of souls, I’ll take my chances.

My quick pace ends when he snags my ankle and yanks me backward. “Where the fuck are you going? I’m not done with you yet.”

My tumble to the ground is soundless, my energy reserved for kicking my attacker in the face. He curses me in Russian when the heel of my shoe smacks him in the nose.

I continue kicking his face until he relinquishes me from his hold. When he does, I scuttle across the floor on my hands and knees. I’m nearly free of my attacker when a pair of black stomping boots block my exit. The room spins around me when my wide eyes lift to take in a pair of ripped denim jeans and a white shirt-covered torso before finally settling on the chillingly wrathful eyes of Nikolai.

“Ahren?” His rough tone is incapable of concealing his shock at seeing me sprawled on the floor.

Realizing we have company, the unnamed man stands from his kneeling position. ‘That whore kicked me in the face. I’ll slit her throat the instant I’ve finished fucking her.’

He glares into my eyes, the life in them even more vacant than when he entered the kitchen. ‘Or maybe I’ll slit your throat first; then I’ll have another hole to penetrate.’ He snarls, exposing that my kicks to his nose left his teeth smeared with blood.

Although a mass surge of adrenaline is making me feel invincible, I scamper to hide behind Nikolai’s thighs. I’m immensely proud at how I protected myself, but I feel more shielded now that he is here.

The longer Nikolai assesses the scene, the tighter his thigh muscles become. I don’t know if his anger stems from his associate’s sneered comment, or because I’ve once again failed to acknowledge my place in his fucked-up hierarchy.

My confusion clears when Nikolai roars, “You’re dead!” His words are so explosive, my entire apartment block hears them.

He moves for my attacker so fast, an army knife from his back pocket is removed and sliced across my assailant’s throat before I complete an entire blink. Nikolai’s second strike is just as swift as the first, hitting the man’s jugular so aggressively, he falls onto his knees. His head hangs forward, and the color drains from his face as his hands shoot up to cradle his neck.

Straddling my attacker’s back, Nikolai fists his sweat-drenched hair and yanks his head back, forcing his eyes to align with mine. “Look at her!” he demands in Russian, his voice the deepest I’ve heard. “Her angelic face will be the last you’ll see when I send you to hell for touching what is mine.” He roars his last word in a thigh-quaking growl.

“Nikolai,” a stern voice shouts in warning. “Think of the repercussions of this with your father. Sergei is family. He may not have the Popov name, but he has the blood.”

As my eyes drift to the side, I spot Roman standing at the entranceway of my kitchen. His wide eyes are locked on Nikolai, and he is surrounded by half of the party guests. All of them are male, and all their eyes are rapt on Nikolai.

My fearful gaze strays back to Nikolai when he snarls, “I don’t care if he has the blood of a Popov, his disgrace will not be tolerated! You don’t disrespect me and not suffer the penance for your poor judgment.”

Sergei coughs, splattering his chin with blood when Nikolai roughly yanks back his head once more. “You were warned I’d slit your throat if you touched her. Unlike my brothers, my threats aren’t idle.”

“Don’t,” I beg breathlessly when Nikolai digs the tip of his knife into the only portion of skin on Sergei’s throat not stained with blood.

My plea is barely a squeak, but loud enough for Nikolai to hear. He stares at me, confused as to why I’m begging for him not to retaliate to Sergei’s attack with equal aggression.

“Two wrongs won’t make a right,” I say as a stream of vibrant red blood flows from Sergei’s new wounds.

‘Listen to Justine, Nikolai. She doesn’t want this.’ Roman’s eyes swing to me. ‘Tell him this isn’t what you want.’ His eyes are as pleading as mine. He appears genuinely panicked about what the aftermath will be if Nikolai kills Sergei.

“I don’t want this,” I repeat, glancing back at Nikolai, my words garbled through the bile surging up my throat. “No woman is worth a fracture to the order, remember? You said that only an hour ago.”

Nikolai shakes his head, like he can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. ‘He hurt you,’ he seethes, his voice as molten as lava.

I shake my head. “No, he didn’t. Look at me; I’m fine.” Other than a scuff on my knee, I don’t have a mark on me.

Nikolai stares at me, his eyes dark and volatile. “He touched what is mine.”

“I know,” I reply, nodding, saying anything to lessen the fury in his eyes. “But I’m fine. Look at me, Nikolai. I am perfectly fine. Sergei is the only one injured.”

When I wave my hand to Sergei, my eyes lock in on a large puddle of blood pooling around his knees. I clutch my temples, fighting off a terrible case of dizziness. I’ve never been a fan of blood, so I’m not shocked by my giddy state. I’m just surprised it took so long to arrive.

When I stand from the ground, trying to get away from the offending product, I sway uncontrollably like a wilted leaf on a summer’s day. Roman reaches out to stabilize me, but conscious of my near attack and caught in bitter memories, I shrug off his worry with a forced smile.

It’s a foolish mistake. My brisk movements intensify my imbalance even more.

“Ahren. . .” The anger momentarily fades from Nikolai’s face as he eyes me with concern.

I try to fire off another reassurance that I’m fine, but since I’m sucking in gulps of air, hoping a fresh batch of oxygen will soothe my lightheadedness, not a word seeps from my lips. My lungs welcome the air, but it does nothing to lessen my swaying movements. I feel like I’m seconds away from fainting.

Seemingly reading my inner monologue, Nikolai thrusts Sergei to the side before diving for me. I barely force out, “I don’t want this,” again before I tumble to the ground, thankfully unconscious before I connect with the tiled floor.